Be To Yourself As You Would To

My Long Sickness Of Health And Living Now Begins To Mend, And Nothing Brings Me All Things.

Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach At The Glorious Gold.

Shorten My Days Thou Canst With Sullen Sorrow, And Pluck Nights From Me, But Not Lend A Morrow; Thou Canst Help Time To Furrow Me With Age, But Stop No Wrinkle In His Pilgrimage.

She's Gone. I Am Abused, And My Relief Must Be To Loathe Her.

Patch Up Thine Old Body For Heaven.